


Glitter

by green_violin_bow



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Mycroft really does not like glitter, Mystrade Advent Calendar 2017, background Johnlock, but he's secretly a good uncle
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-14
Updated: 2017-12-14
Packaged: 2019-02-14 09:48:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,040
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13005141
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/green_violin_bow/pseuds/green_violin_bow
Summary: Greg lifts Rosie onto a tall stool at the kitchen island, and pushes a bag over to her. “Help me unpack?” he asks. She starts pulling things out of the Sainsbury’s bag with more eagerness than caution.“Glitter!” she shouts, with unrestrained glee.“Glitter,” says Mycroft, turning around and fixing Greg with a steely grey glare.“Edible glitter,” grins Greg. “For the biscuits.”“Yes, the biscuits,” says Mycroft, narrowing his eyes.Greg shrugs. “It’s Christmas. You’ve got to have glitter.”





	Glitter

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you very much to @egmon73 and @mottlemoth for all their hard work on the Mystrade Advent Calendar. x

Greg’s phone rings just as he returns to his desk. A long morning in court, the first cup of coffee he’s had in hours, and of course –

He sighs, spilling the mug of coffee slightly in his haste to wrestle his mobile out of his pocket.

“Lestrade,” he says, tiredly.

“Gregory. My apologies for interrupting you at work –”

Greg relaxes, and drops into his chair. “Oh, it’s  _ you,  _ gorgeous. God, I thought it was someone about to say I’d got to go out to a scene. Only just bloody back from court, and there’s enough paperwork here to keep me going for the next three days.”

Mycroft makes a small, sympathetic noise at the other end of the line, and goes quiet.

“Y’alright?” asks Greg. “Still looking forward to seeing you later. Not cancelling or anything. The paperwork can wait, once it hits six.”

Mycroft clears his throat slightly. “Actually I – I regret to say that I must cancel dinner this evening.”

Greg groans, allowing his head to fall back against his chair. “Work? Any nuclear incidents or major economic crashes I should be worried about?”

Mycroft’s voice is wryly amused. “On the contrary. I have been summarily informed by Sherlock and John that Rosie is coming to stay with me tonight. They have a case in Sussex. Apparently she wishes to ‘bake some Christmas biscuits’.” He says the words as though a more outlandish activity could not possibly have been suggested.

Greg allows himself a moment to grin, silently, heart clenching with adoration for this silly, tentative man. “Sounds fun,” he says.

Mycroft makes a slightly strangled noise, and Greg can’t stop himself from laughing out loud.

“Can I join?” he asks, still chuckling.

“Oh, thank  _ God,” _ says Mycroft, with more fervour than Greg has ever heard him use outside the bedroom.

Greg snorts. “You working at home?”

“Yes. Apparently they will be here to drop her off around six.”

Greg checks his watch. “Right. I’ll pick up some bits on the way to yours.”

Mycroft hesitates a moment. “If that is –” he murmurs.

Greg smiles to himself. “’Course. We’ll make ginger biscuits, yeah? Always good for Christmas.”

“I defer to your far superior knowledge of baking, Gregory.”

“I’d better pick up some Christmas biscuit cutters too,” muses Greg, pulling a post-it note closer. “And mostly what kids want to do is the icing…” he trails off. “I’ll look up some stuff, and then come away.”

“Are you sure you can spare –”

“’Course I am. We were going to meet up anyway.”

Mycroft’s voice is quiet. “Thank you very much, Gregory.”

“No problem. See you in a bit.”

*

When Greg presses Mycroft’s intercom, it takes a few minutes for the approval buzz to come through, and for the security officer to open the front door. Greg takes the lift, shopping bags weighing heavy in his hands.

The door of Mycroft’s flat is wrenched open as he approaches, and a little girl – short blonde hair, jeans and a red jumper – shouts, “Uncle Greg!”

He grins and puts the shopping bags down. “Alright, trouble?” he asks, kneeling for a hug. “Haven’t seen you for a while. I swear you’ve got taller.”

She pokes curiously in one of the shopping bags, and he stands up, quickly. “Let’s get these inside,” he says, scooping them up. “Then we can unpack.”

She scampers ahead of him, almost cannoning into Mycroft’s legs as he emerges from the kitchen.  _ Grey tweed suit. Shirt sleeves rolled up. Still wearing his waistcoat and tie.  _ He takes a bag from Greg, and sets it on the kitchen counter.

“Ta,” says Greg, noting Mycroft’s stiff-backed posture. “Alright?” he smiles. He goes to rest his hand on Mycroft’s back, but Mycroft turns away to put the kettle on.

Greg lifts Rosie onto a tall stool at the kitchen island, and pushes a bag over to her. “Help me unpack?” he asks. She starts pulling things out of the Sainsbury’s bag with more eagerness than caution.

“Glitter!” she shouts, with unrestrained glee.

“Glitter,” says Mycroft, turning around and fixing Greg with a steely grey glare.

_ “Edible  _ glitter,” grins Greg. “For the biscuits.”

“Yes, the biscuits,” says Mycroft, narrowing his eyes.

Greg shrugs. “It’s Christmas. You’ve got to have glitter.”

“Reindeer!” says Rosie, brandishing a biscuit cutter in the air. “Can we make sparkly reindeer?”

Greg looks at Mycroft through his eyelashes.

“Of course,” says Mycroft, after a moment. “You must need some dinner first though.”

“I’ve  _ had  _ my dinner, Uncle Myc,” she says patiently, as if it’s obvious. “We need to bake.”

Mycroft raises an eyebrow at Greg.

Greg nods. “We can always order something later,” he says quietly. “When she’s –” he cuts his gaze to Rosie. With two nieces and a nephew, he knows better than to say ‘gone to bed’ out loud.

“Gregory – your coat,” says Mycroft guiltily, holding out his hands.

“’S’alright,” says Greg, “I’ll just –” he goes back to the front door, shrugs off his coat and suit jacket, then pushes off his shoes. As he returns to the kitchen, Rosie fixes Mycroft with a beady stare.

“Uncle Greg’s your boyfriend, isn’t he Uncle Myc? Daddy said.”

Mycroft blinks at his small niece.

“’Course I am,” says Greg, leaning casually against the kitchen counter, turning up the sleeves of his shirt.

“Why don’t you kiss him then?” asks Rosie, staring curiously at Mycroft. “Daddy and Papa kiss all the time.”

Mycroft’s cheeks are ever so slightly pink. Greg puts his hand over Mycroft’s on the cool granite counter. “Don’t worry. We kiss all the time too.” He feels Mycroft’s fingers twitch slightly, under his own.

“But you don’t live together.”

“No.”

“You  _ can’t  _ kiss all the time then.”

“I know, it’s rubbish,” he grins, and she giggles. “Right,” he says, squeezing Mycroft’s hand. “Shall we make some Christmas ginger biscuits?”

“Yes!” she howls, excitedly, and Greg finds the recipe he’d bookmarked on his phone, while Mycroft takes her to the sink for a thorough lesson in handwashing.

“Scales?” asks Greg, searching through cupboards.

“Top right,” says Mycroft, without turning round.

“Measuring jug?”

“The shelf above the mugs.”

“Mixing bowl?”

There’s a thoughtful silence.

“I have no idea.”

Greg snorts a laugh. “Did you even  _ buy _ the crockery in this kitchen?”

Mycroft gives him a rather guilty look over his shoulder, as he holds out the teatowel for Rosie to dry her hands. “I do not  _ bake, _ Gregory.”

Greg grins. “Well I refuse to believe Anthea wouldn’t’ve thought of it.”

Mycroft flickers an eyebrow, a wry smile at the corner of his mouth.

Greg only has to search a couple of cupboards before he finds a neat set of colourful nested mixing bowls. “What colour d’you want to use, Rosie?” he asks, holding them out.

“Purple,” she picks, holding up her very clean hands like a surgeon. Greg passes the purple one to Mycroft to wash up.

Lifting Rosie up onto a stool at the kitchen island again, he assembles everything around her. “Right,” he says. “So we’re going to melt the butter, sugar and golden syrup in  _ this  _ little saucepan, and make a well of the flour and ginger in the mixing bowl.”

She nods, seriously, and he starts helping her measure the ingredients to be melted into the small saucepan. Quietly, Mycroft finishes drying the mixing bowl, and places it in front of them.

Greg thanks him with a quick look, their gazes snagging. Mycroft presses his lips together and looks quickly down at the kitchen counter.

“Here we go,” says Greg, holding the saucepan out to Mycroft. “Uncle Myc can be in charge of the hob. It needs melting very slowly, on low.”

“You’ve forgotten to preheat the oven,” says Rosie, wisely.

“You’re right, trouble,” grins Greg. Mycroft turns the oven on as they instruct him.

Greg helps Rosie with measuring out the flour, lifting the heavy bag for her; with the teaspoon in unsteady little hands, they put in quite a lot more ginger than the recipe calls for. Rosie finds making the well of flour fascinating, smoothing the sides with a wooden spoon, turning the mixing bowl around and around.

Greg smiles, watching her, and when he looks up, Mycroft’s gaze is fixed on them both.

Mixing everything together is Rosie’s favourite part: she revels in kneading the sticky mixture. Mycroft insists on wiping down the counter before they flour it. 

Greg shows Rosie how to use the rolling pin. As she starts to get the hang of it, he leans against the kitchen counter.

At last he feels Mycroft’s warmth next to him, not touching, but closer than he has been all evening. Usually, in this kitchen, or in Greg’s, they are hardly apart: talking, laughing, casually in touch with one another, arms around waists, hands catching as they prepare dinner; kissing, slowly, after a first sip of wine.

It’s been five months since the decision was made –  _ this, us, now, at last  _ – and Greg’s heart swells every time he thinks about Mycroft.

_I wish we lived together. _

He knows not to push. 

Even a small thing – for example, even the presence of a little girl who specifically thinks they  _ definitely ought to be kissing  _ – can upset the delicate balance of intimacy that he and Mycroft have spun together. 

Sometimes, it feels like building a house of cards.  _Thing is though, I’ve heard him. I’ve heard him say ‘I love you’, voice shaking with emotion, truth in every fucking syllable. I’ve seen him, letting go, with me like with no-one else: sex, laughter, bringing me coffee in the morning when I stay over _ –

_ God, I love him. _

Greg leans to the side, just a little, so that their shoulders touch. There is a long, quiet moment where Greg doesn’t breathe. Mycroft does not move away.

“Right, that’s prob’ly thin enough,” says Greg, lifting the rolling pin away from Rosie. “Which shape d’you want? Reindeer or Christmas tree?”

“Reindeer,” she says, with scorn. Greg raises an eyebrow at Mycroft, whose mouth flickers amusement at the corners. 

Greg feels Mycroft’s shoulder press very slightly closer to his own. He turns to him, smiling softly. “Baking trays?” he asks.

Mycroft nods. “Certainly.” His deep grey gaze flickers briefly to Greg’s lips, then back to his eyes. “I shall…” he gestures to the oven, and turns away, breaking their contact. 

Greg passes Rosie the reindeer cookie cutter. “Alright, pickle, time to start cutting ’em out.”

“Pickle…?” murmurs Mycroft.

Greg turns around and grins at him. “Term of endearment,” he says, mock-defensively.

Mycroft raises an eyebrow.

“Careful,” grins Greg. “I’ll start calling  _ you _ it.”

Even though he is drying up baking trays, Mycroft stands tall and gives Greg a blast of his most supercilious expression. Greg huffs his amusement, and steps closer to undo Mycroft’s tie, drawing it slowly from around his neck.  _The only man I know who puts on a tie just to work from home. _ Greg’s heart squeezes, fondly.

Mycroft lays the baking trays on the counter in front of Rosie, who has already cut out several reindeer, rather haphazardly across the slab of biscuit dough. Mycroft’s head tilts, and Greg watches his fingers tap softly against the edge of the counter. After a moment, he moves around behind Rosie and guides her hand. “If you cut one here, you could fit the antlers around this one –”. They cut out a biscuit together, Mycroft’s long fingers gentle over Rosie’s small ones.

Rosie moves the cutter to fit it around a different reindeer, and looks up to Mycroft for reassurance. Greg watches as Mycroft nods, gravely, and Rosie goes ahead.

Mycroft looks up sharply, sensing Greg’s gaze on him. Greg smiles, and the moment spins out, a shared look across the span of the counter.

It feels like miles.

“Can I eat some?” asks Rosie, looking pleadingly up at Mycroft.

“At the end, when we have cut out all the reindeer,” he says, drily. “And not too much.”

Greg fetches a knife, and starts to lift the biscuits onto the baking tray. “Now you collect the other bits that’re left over, and we’ll roll them out again to make a few more.”

Mycroft helps Rosie scoop all the dough together. 

A little surprised to see Mycroft getting his hands dirty, Greg does not comment. He wants, desperately, to slip his arm round Mycroft’s waist, to kiss his shoulder. Just to let him know that watching him like this, gentle with Rosie, is a privilege, and one that he values.

At last, they have two trays of biscuits ready to go in the oven. As they slide the trays in, Greg murmurs to Mycroft, “maybe she should get in her pyjamas now? So she’s ready to conk out once the biscuits are decorated.”

Mycroft nods, and directs Rosie firmly before him out of the kitchen. Greg grins and gets on with the washing up, until everything is clean and ready for the icing process.

When Rosie comes running back in, she is wearing Paddington pyjamas and slipper socks. “Are they ready?” she asks, eagerly, trying to peer through the door of the oven.

“A minute ’til the timer goes off,” says Greg, glancing at his phone as he dries his hands on the teatowel. “Where’s Mycroft?”

Rosie shrugs. “Have you made the icing?”

“Yeah. We’ve got white in both those bowls at the moment, but I thought we’d make one of them glitter, right?”

Rosie nods, enthusiastically, then snaps to attention as the oven timer starts to beep. Greg pushes buttons until it stops. As he is doing so, Mycroft appears at his side, ready to help.

The trays of biscuits sit cooling on the side. 

“When can we ice them?” asks Rosie.

“They will need to cool first,” says Mycroft, calmly. “Would you like a mug of hot chocolate?”

“Yes  _ please,” _ says Rosie, looking up at him. “The Maltesers one?”

“Naturally,” says Mycroft dryly, opening his tea cupboard and reaching for a high shelf.

“My special hot chocolate,” Rosie informs Greg.

Greg grins, leaning back against the counter. He knows well that Mycroft certainly wouldn’t allow Maltesers hot chocolate in the house, were it not his niece’s preferred option.

Greg finds the icing bags he’d bought earlier, and snips a very fine point off one of them. He fills it to around half-full with white icing, twists the top tightly, and sets it upside-down in a mug next to the cooling biscuits. He adds a couple more drops of water to the remaining white icing in the bowl, until it is a little runnier. 

“A drink, Gregory?”

“Tea’d be great, thanks.”

When Mycroft hands him the mug, their fingers brush. Greg gives him a soft, encouraging smile.

“Why do you call him that?” asks Rosie, from her seat at the kitchen island. Mycroft reaches out to gently stop her small fingers from dipping into the icing. He raises a rather startled eyebrow.

“It’s his name for me,” says Greg, smiling at the little girl. “And only he gets to use it,” he adds.

“Daddy calls Papa  _honeybee,” _ she says. 

Mycroft chokes slightly, into his cup of tea.

Greg smiles.  _ Well I call Myc ‘gorgeous’,  _ he wants to say.  _ Because he is.  _ He tests a biscuit with his fingertip. “I think we can ice these now.”

Rosie pushes her hot chocolate to one side. Greg holds the icing bag out to Mycroft. “Maybe you could do the outline?”

Still holding his cup of tea, Mycroft hesitates. His eyes widen. “Oh, I –”

“It’s so there’s a boundary for the icing,” says Greg. “Like this.” He takes a biscuit, and outlines the reindeer’s head and body with a thin line of white icing, ignoring the antlers. “Then Rosie’ll fill in the middle.”

Mycroft clears his throat slightly, flicking his eyes up to Greg’s. Greg reads reluctance there, but is not sure why. Slowly, Mycroft puts down his tea and comes to join them at the counter. He takes the icing bag and picks up another reindeer.

_ Best to let him get used to it. He’s a bloody genius, he can ice a biscuit.  _ Greg shows Rosie how to carefully spoon the slightly runnier white icing inside the boundary line he created on the first biscuit, spreading it delicately with the back of the spoon.

Together, they mix edible glitter into the other bowl of icing and use it to give the reindeer iced glitter antlers.

When they move the first biscuit aside, Mycroft silently places the second – with a beautifully precise white icing border – in front of Rosie.

Greg glances up to smile at him. Mycroft looks – nervous, worrying at his bottom lip.

Greg moves to stand behind and between Mycroft and Rosie. Gently, he places his hand on Mycroft’s back. “Looks good,” he murmurs. “Next one?”

Mycroft blinks, then selects another biscuit and bows his head over it, tightening the icing bag in his long, elegant fingers.

Rosie gets rather good at glittery antlers. Mycroft’s confidence seems to grow, too, and Greg wonders:  _did they never do things like this, the Holmes boys? Did no-one bake with them, or draw with them, or show them how to ride a bike?_ Not for the first time, he tries to picture the childhood of these strange, spiky, tender, genius men.

Mycroft and Rosie chat, quietly, seriously, about their progress, and when Mycroft has outlined all the reindeer, Rosie shows him how to fill in the bodies with the runny icing.

He lets himself be shown.

Greg wants to hold him, to slip his arms around his waist, to rest his lips between his shoulderblades, and leave soft, quiet kisses on the navy silk back of his waistcoat. Instead he encourages Rosie with gentle praise, and all the time, his hand rests in the small of Mycroft’s back.

Eventually, they have two plates of glittery iced Christmas reindeer. Rosie twists on her stool and grins up at them. “Can I have one?”

Mycroft checks his watch and makes a hissing, considering noise.  _ “One.  _ Then teeth and bed.”

“My hot choc’late’s gone cold.”

Greg microwaves it for a few seconds, and passes it back to her. “Go on then,” he says, nodding to the biscuits. “Taste tester.”

Solemnly, she picks a particularly glittery reindeer, and takes a bite of the antlers. Greg takes one too and snaps it in half, passing the other part to Mycroft.

It’s pretty tasty, if he does say so himself: spicy, gingery and sweet. He wants to kiss the guilty expression from Mycroft’s face as he takes a bite of biscuit.  _ He never can understand how beautiful he is.  _

Rosie sips her hot chocolate as slowly as possible, but Mycroft does not fall for the ruse, and takes her to the bathroom to clean her teeth.

Greg does some more washing up – not too much glitter has been distributed around Mycroft’s kitchen, despite his fears – then hears Rosie calling his name.

“Yes?”

“Uncle Greg!” she shouts again, and he makes for the second bedroom. He is confused, though, not to find anyone there. “My room!” yells Rosie.

_ Her room?  _ Greg walks down the corridor towards Mycroft’s study, which he has only been into a few times. Opposite the study is another door. He had assumed it was a cupboard. Now, the door stands open, and soft light spills into the corridor.

Amazed, Greg steps inside. It’s a small room. Maybe it  _ was _ a cupboard, once.

It’s not the kind of room that he – or perhaps anyone else in the free world – would have expected to find in Mycroft Holmes’ house.

There are framed posters of Jemima Puddleduck, Winnie-the-Pooh and Paddington Bear on the walls. There’s a short bookshelf over the bed, packed with books. The bed has brushed-cotton lavender sheets and duvet. The lamp on the bedside table glows with a soft, warm light.

Mycroft’s cheeks are ever so slightly pink as he sits on the edge of the bed, holding  _ The Paddington Treasury for the Very Young.  _ “Rosie wishes you to be present during her bedtime story,” he says, somewhat stiffly, spine very straight.

Fighting down a rising sense of unreality, Greg takes a seat behind Mycroft, at the end of Rosie’s bed. “’Kay,” he says.

“Are you sure you wish me to read this particular tale, Rosie?” asks Mycroft.

“Yes, Uncle Myc,” she says, snuggling down against her pillow. She has with her the tattered, cuddly bumble bee that Greg has seen a hundred times in Baker Street.

And Greg watches Rosie lull into sleep to the sound of Mycroft’s voice; the tale of a please-look-after-this-bear who just wanted to help with the decorating, and certainly wasn’t expecting the paint explosion that ensued.

Greg feels as though he has surprised Mycroft in a secret he would otherwise have protected forever. 

When the small girl’s breathing lengthens into a deep, even pattern, Mycroft quietly closes the book. “I believe we can now leave her,” he says, awkwardly, not turning to look at Greg. He places the book precisely on the bedside table.

Mycroft walks a couple of steps ahead of Greg down the corridor, posture impeccable. “I cannot understand why Rosie prefers that story,” he whispers. “Her reading comprehension far outstrips it by now.”

“Did you read it to her when she was younger?”

“Yes,” says Mycroft tightly. He hesitates a moment, then admits, “John asked me to record it for her, because she had a – preference for my voice, reading it.”

“She just wanted the live version, then,” smiles Greg, closing the living room door behind them. “Prob’ly finds it comforting. Something from when she was little.”

Mycroft does not respond. His back is turned to Greg, fetching a menu from the kitchen.

“Would you mind if we order sushi?” he asks, blandly.

“’Course not, sounds good,” says Greg. _My idiot genius._ _Feeling guilty for eating half a biscuit. _ His heart squeezes, aching painfully with love and understanding.

He joins Mycroft in the kitchen, and puts his hands gently on his hipbones. His stiff posture does not soften. Greg does not press any closer, and slowly, Mycroft relaxes under his hands.

“Gorgeous,” murmurs Greg, and Mycroft’s shoulders fall a little. Greg steps forwards and slips his arms around his waist, pulling him back against him, lips against the cool silk of the back of his waistcoat. They breathe together for a minute, and Greg feels Mycroft surrender, melt closer still.

“Okay evening?” asks Greg, casually, and Mycroft glances down at the reindeer biscuits.

“Indeed,” he murmurs. “And – you?” he asks, hesitantly.

“’Course,” says Greg, gently. “I spent it with you.”

Mycroft clears his throat slightly, and Greg can feel his determination – his bravery – in the shift of his hips, the straightening of his spine. He turns in Greg’s arms, hands finding a tentative place on Greg’s shoulders.

“Gregory,” he says. He blinks, takes a breath. “I – earlier – when Rosie –” he clears his throat, nervously. “I have not shared my space with anyone in a long time,” he says, diffidently. “Earlier, when Rosie mentioned that we do not live together – was your response –?” he seems unable to continue.

Greg’s stomach swoops. He searches Mycroft’s face for clues. “I – oh Myc, I wasn’t trying to – y’know, put pressure on, or –”

Mycroft’s fingers tighten slightly on his shoulders, and Greg receives a flash of piercing, dark grey gaze. “No, Gregory – please forgive my lack of clarity,” he says, crisply, and Greg can hear annoyance at himself in his clipped tone. “I wished to convey that – should you wish to – I would be interested in discussing a…closer living arrangement.” He lowers his eyelashes, and a tinge of pink stains his cheekbones.

Greg struggles silently with the wildly-beating breath-stealing battering of his heart.  _ Don’t make this a big deal.  _

_ The bravest man I know. _

_ My love. _

“Whatever you want, I’d love,” he says, simply, almost casually. “Yeah.”

Mycroft’s eyes are wide, and dark slate grey. “You will stay tonight?”

“You’ll have to lend me some pyjamas, given the small guest,” smiles Greg.

“That is within my power.”

“And a kiss.”

The edges of Mycroft’s mouth curl. “This too I think I can bestow,” he murmurs.

Greg grins, and strokes the pad of his thumb over Mycroft’s cheek. “Alright then.”


End file.
